


sweeten and make whole

by ceserabeau



Series: a beam in darkness [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Multi, Nogitsune Stiles, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What do you want to do?” Lydia asks.<br/>Stiles leans back into the warm weight of Derek’s body. “Just – stay with me?” he asks, taking Lydia’s hand in his own.<br/>“We will,” Derek promises, “We will.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweeten and make whole

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Rudyard Kipling's _A Charm_ :  
> It shall sweeten and make whole  
> Fevered breath and festered soul.
> 
> You should probably read the rest of the series first?

The Nogitsune leaves him broken and bloody in a motel room in the middle of nowhere. The only things Stiles has with him are a duffle of clean clothes and a phone with no contacts.

 _Because they’re all dead_ , he thinks hysterically and barely makes it to the toilet before he pukes.

It takes a long time for him to get up off the bathroom floor, and even then he only gets as far as the edge of the bathtub. He feels hollow, like his insides have been ripped out, and when he looks down at himself he half expects to see a gaping hole in his chest.

But all he sees is an unfamiliar shirt, splattered with something that might be blood. It makes his stomach turn and he has to rip it off, buttons scattering over the floor as the fabric tears with the force of his tugging.

When Stiles finally finds his feet, his reflection is there to greet him. His face is familiar but other than that he hardly recognises himself. He’s taller, broader, but his skin is sallow, his face gaunt. His hair hangs in his eyes, long and shaggy. There are new scars all over his chest: jagged claw marks, long lines from a knife, a circular shape that he thinks might be a gunshot; some white and fading, some pink and fresh.

He doesn’t remember getting a single one of them, and he has to hunch over the toilet again as his stomach rebels once more.

When he finally pulls himself up again onto shaking legs and stumbles back into the bedroom, the sun is starting to peek through the curtains. It bathes the room in a faintly golden glow, chasing away the grey of the dawn.

In the new light, the room looks bare. There’s a bag by the table and a phone on the nightstand, but all Stiles can think of is his own room, his home, all the things he used to have that are now gone. Here he has nothing; nothing except an unwavering belief that Derek and Lydia will come, that they’ll find him.

And if they don’t come, then that means he never called them and this is another trick.

He has the right number of fingers, the right number of toes, but even that doesn’t mean he’s awake, not any more. He’s been trapped in a nightmare that’s been entirely real for months now, seeing and touching and tasting every moment of his life but paralysed, trapped inside his own body, unable to stop the ride.

So this could still be a dream, the Nogitsune playing him no matter how much he thinks its gone. He can’t trust himself, trust his own senses, so in the end he just curls up in the corner of the room and waits.

-

They’ve been in Louisiana for exactly twenty one days before they have to pack their bags again. Derek stacks boxes in the back of the truck as the sun peeks over the horizon, Lydia plotting routes on their battered map with crimson lines.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks her.

What he really means is: do you want to give this up?

It’s taken them six month to get here. Six months of running for their lives, scared out of their minds, always looking over their shoulders. Six months of dark motel rooms and darker dreams, the open road stretching out endlessly before them like a curse, like a promise. Six months of hands linked across the front seat of the truck, fingers carefully wiping away tears, gentle kisses placed on smiling lips.

One phone call and they’re ready to throw it all away.

Lydia turns her face to him, beautiful in the orange light as it reflects off the river, but there’s something hard in her eyes, her face closed off in a way he doesn’t recognise.

“We have to,” she says, mouth curving down. She looks back to the map, traces the road she’s chosen with a delicate finger. “We owe it to ourselves to find out if it’s really gone.”

Derek leans against the hood beside her. The red of her pen reminds him of blood and bodies, of Alpha eyes and sunsets on the run. The memories crash over him; they make his hands shake and his heartbeat quicken as the panic they create hums under his skin.

“And if it’s a trap?” he asks.

Lydia frowns at him. They’re had this conversation a dozen times over: what if it’s a trap; what if it’s still in him; what if he tries to kill us; what if, what if, what if.

“We have to,” she says again.

She says it with the same confidence and certainty that she says everything – because Lydia Martin is never wrong – and Derek wants to believe her, he really truly does, but he can smell her anxiety, hear the way her heartbeat is pounding in her chest.

He kisses her to wash away the sharp taste of fear from his tongue.

 -

The drive feels like the first one they took together, fleeing Beacon Hills with the Nogitsune screaming after them. It’s awkward, uncomfortable, neither of them knowing what to say, how to comfort the other.

Derek drives too fast instead of the slow meandering way they’ve been moving between towns. He tries to take Lydia’s hand across the front seat but she pulls away from him, curls herself up so she can stare out the window, watching the Louisiana countryside rolls past in a blur of green. They pass signs for weird attractions and if it was any other trip, if they had any other destination, they’d stop at them.

The radio sings songs about lost loves and Derek tries to stop the terror he feels from consuming him.

They reach Mrytle Beach in the late evening, the sky alight with the reds and oranges of a summer sunset. The sidewalks are crowded with tourists on their way to dinner or a long walk on the beach. The air smells like salt and sunscreen, and it makes Derek wrinkle his nose against the sharp tang.

They find the motel easy enough, a low building tucked between towering apartments. Lydia pulls into the parking lot and turns off the engine, but neither of them move for a long time, just sit and stare at the building.

“We don’t have to do this,” Derek tells her.

She makes a noise that, under any other circumstances, would be a laugh. “We’ve come this far,” she says.

He looks at her, as calm as ever even in the face of potential death. In comparison he feels like a live wire, a tightness in his chest, his heart pounding double time, and he has to listen to the steady thump of her pulse to pull himself back from the edge of panic.

“If this all goes to shit,” he says, “I need to tell you –”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, and slides across the bench, hands on his face, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”

They sit like that for a long time, trading soft kisses as the sun drops below the horizon and the sky turns inky black. The clock on the dash marks the minutes, the hours, until Lydia startles from his embrace.

“Time to go,” she says, and extracts herself from his arms.

Room 39, Stiles had said, and it’s not hard to find. When they’re standing outside Derek can smell him, desperate and sad, overpowering even through the door. It makes him stumble, grab the wall to stay upright.

“Derek?”

Lydia touches his arm gently; “I’m okay,” he tells her.

He’s not, and they both know it, but there’s no time to think about it because suddenly the door slides open an inch and Stiles is right there, half shrouded in shadow. He looks so different, taller but so much skinnier, his face gaunt and hollow, eyes haunted. His mouth moves a couple of times, tongue sliding out to wet cracked lips, but in the end he says nothing, just steps back to let them in.

Derek follows Lydia inside, carefully shutting the door behind him. When he turns round Stiles is on the other side of the room, as far away as he can get, pressed up against the table. His heart is pounding and the room reeks of fear.

Lydia feels frozen. She doesn’t cry, not anymore, but her eyes are still stinging sharply. Stiles is here, he’s right there, but there’s a gulf between them, impassable, and she can’t figure out how to reach out. Luckily, Stiles does it for her.

“When did Derek become a lumberjack?” he says.

He’s aiming for joking but his voice cracks somewhere in the middle and there are tears spilling down his cheeks. Lydia chokes on a sob and without thinking crosses the room, sliding her arms carefully around him. Stiles flinches at the feel of her hands, but he lets her hold him, lets her press her face into his chest. He noses at her hair, inhaling deeply, and she hiccups against his shirt.

Derek goes to them, puts his arms around them both, and Stiles collapses against him. He’s taller than Derek remembers, broader, but he can feel every knob of Stiles’ spine, the jagged edges of his shoulder blades and lines of his ribs.

Beneath his hands, Stiles trembles like a leaf, tucking his head under Derek’s chin. Derek takes a moment to just breathe, taking in the familiar scent of Stiles beneath the sweat and dirt and the stink of fear and pain and guilt.

“You smell,” Lydia mumbles and Stiles stutters out what could be a laugh, if it wasn’t so jagged and harsh. “When was the last time you showered?”

Stiles shrugs, jostling her head a little. “I don’t know? Not since I woke up, I mean.”

“You should shower,” Derek rumbles against his side.

Stiles pulls away with a nod. “Okay,” he says, but when he tries to walk away he stumbles, falls.

Lydia and Derek are there to hold him up. “Let us help you,” she whispers.

Lydia’s hands are cold where they push his shirt up; the AC creeps ice-cold across his skin and he shivers suddenly. Then Derek wraps himself around Stiles and he’s like a furnace. He leads Stiles to the bathroom with tiny shuffling steps, Lydia trailing behind.

Inside, Lydia turns the shower on with a click and Derek falls to his knees, hands on the button of his jeans. Stiles is reminded of a hundred wet dreams, a thousand jerk off sessions, but they’re all overlaid with a wash of red that makes him close his eyes on the image and will away the taste of puke from his mouth.

Derek helps him out of his jeans, pulling them down and helping him lift each foot in turn. By the time he’s done the room is cloudy with steam and Lydia pushes him into the tiny shower. The water is warm, the steady splatter of drops soothing against his skin. Stiles sticks his head under the spray, lets the rush of water drown out the faint sound of Derek and Lydia’s conversation.

When he pulls back the room is quiet and he thinks they’ve gone, but then the curtain pulls back and Derek slides in with him, all tanned skin and hard muscle. He turns Stiles with gentle hands on his hips and directs him under the water, rubbing soap from the dish all over his carefully.

The press of Derek’s body against his back is something he used to dream about, but Stiles is too tired to be turned on by it. There’s something clinical about the way Derek washes him down, methodical sweeps of the sponge against his skin.

“This okay?” he asks, hands grazing across Stiles’ stomach, the ridges of muscle there.

Stiles nods agreement and Derek dips lower, washes his hips, his cock, the tops of his legs. Any other situation and he’d be moaning by now, but Stiles just leans into Derek’s chest and tries to focus on breathing.

The patter of the water lulls him into a daze and he barely notices when Derek shuts it off and wraps a towel round him.

“Come on,” he says, voice low in Stiles’ ear, “Out.”

In the other room, Lydia’s there with clean clothes that she helps him into. They hang awkwardly on his body, much too large, and he realises from the smell that they’re Derek’s, Derek’s shirt and sweatpants. It makes him relax into the circle of Derek’s arms

“Into bed,” Lydia says as she pulls the covers back; “Time to sleep.”

Stiles’ body jerks with a, “No,” and he tries to resist, but Derek just bears him down onto the mattress and wraps himself around him. There’s something like panic hovering at the edge of his conscious but his eyes are heavy, so heavy, and Derek is a warm weight across his chest.

“Just relax,” Lydia’s saying somewhere above him, and he lets the soft sound of her voice drag him down into sleep.

-

Stiles dreams of a black void, a great mass creeping up on him in the darkness of his mind. No matter how far or how fast he runs it always catches him, swallows him up. _Did you miss me?_ it hisses and god, no, this can’t be happening again –

He wakes up and Lydia is there, saying _no, don’t, Stiles, please don’t_ as he reaches out to open the door and –

He wakes up and Lydia’s still there, except this time she’s holding him tight, fingers cool on his face. There are strong hands on his shoulders, holding him down, and when he looks up it’s Derek keeping him still.

“ _No_ ,” he screams, because it’s a dream, he’s still dreaming, he has to wake up, “Get out my head, leave me alone, get out, get out, _get out_ –”

“Stiles,” Lydia says, and he slams his eyes shut to get away from her face, “You’re awake. Shh, _shh_ , it’s okay, you’re awake.”

“No, _no_ , you can’t be here, you can’t –”

“Stiles,” Derek says, and his voice is a low rumble, “Open your eyes.”

He does, and he’s met with two faces staring down at him, lit by the streetlights trickling in through the curtains. Lydia looks calm but her eyes are terrified; Derek isn’t much better. But their grip on his is strong, and firm, and real.

“Breathe with me,” Lydia says.

Stiles follows her rhythm: inhale, hold, exhale, inhale, hold, exhale, over and over until the panic thrumming in his veins begins to subside. When he finally feels like he’s in control again, he pushes against their hands and they let him up, hovering at the edge of his vision as he scrubs a hand over his face.

“What were you dreaming about?” Lydia asks softly, concern threaded through her voice and written all over her face.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles snaps as he tries to calm his racing heart.

Derek and Lydia share a look over the top of his head and behind him, Derek climbs slowly to his feet. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says, and vanishes with a gentle touch to Stiles’ shoulder.

When the water clicks on, Lydia turns to him, a soft look on her face. “We won’t force you to talk about it,” she says quietly, “But you need to, at some point.”

Stiles just buries his face in her neck and breathes. She smells like the same flowery perfume she’s always worn, and her skin is soft and warm from sleep. It’s a comfort; a small one, but a comfort nonetheless.

Lydia sighs above him, changes the topic. “So what do you want to do today?” she asks, tilting his head up to look at her.

She’s watching him expectantly and Stiles has to turn away from her heavy gaze. “I don’t know,” he says.

The idea of making a decision, making a plan, makes his heart stutter and his hands shake. He’s still not sure if this is real; if it’s not then the Nogitsune will know everything he’s thinking and he doesn’t want to play its games any more.

Something must show on his face because Lydia squeezes his hand. “It’s a nice day,” she says softly. “We could go to the beach. It would do you good to get some sun.”

Stiles shakes his head angrily. Leaving the motel room isn’t really an option; every time he sets foot outside he’s reminded of everything that he’s done. The ache in his shoulders from swinging a bat over and over. The crunching and cracking of bones breaking. A knife sliding in and blood rushing out.

The memories make him feel sick, and he has to focus on breathing again. He must sit there for a long time, because the bathroom door clicks opens behind them and Lydia lets out a low whistle.

When Stiles turns around, he sees why. Derek Hale in only a pair of boxers is a sight to behold. Derek fixes Lydia with an unimpressed look, but his lips twitch slightly. Stiles feels his own moving in response.

Derek settles back onto the bed, presses up against Stiles’ back like he was before. His skin warm and damp through the thin cotton of Stiles’ shirt.

“What do you want to do?” Lydia asks again.

Stiles leans back into the warm weight of Derek’s body. “Just – stay with me?” he asks, taking Lydia’s hand in his own.

“We will,” Derek promises, “We will.” And Stiles believes him.

-

They stay. For weeks, the three of them in a tiny motel room just off the beach.

They eat meals curled up in the bed, Stiles spilling food all over the covers as the others watch on. They watch movies with Stiles curled up in Derek’s lap, Lydia rubbing his feet with careful hands. They shower together, Derek plastered against Stiles’ back while Lydia lurks in the doorway.

It takes a long time for Stiles to let himself leave the room. It’s easier with Lydia and Derek around, familiar grounding presences that he clings to with the little sanity he has left. They pull him out of the deep, dark hole the Nogitsune has left him in, their smiles slowly chipping away at the walls he’s built around himself.

Stiles isn’t stupid, he sees how things are between them. The way they are around each other, open and relaxed, having entire conversations without ever opening their mouths. The casual touches: Lydia’s hand on the back of Derek’s neck, their little fingers linking together when they sit next to each other, kisses pressed to the corners of mouths when they think he’s not looking.

He’s loved them both for a long time and here they are now, a perfect couple. The Nogitsune couldn’t break them; if anything it brought them closer together, made them stronger and more powerful than ever. 

So it hurts a little – no, a lot. But the pain is no more than he deserves. And they’re happy together, they’re _beautiful_ together, and he feels a little bit of satisfaction too that he had a part in that.

It’s with their help that Stiles manages to get himself on his feet, to piece his life back together. He discovers that the Chevvy in the parking lot is his, apparently bought legally but not in his name. His wallet has five IDs in it, different names on each but all with his grinning face: Mark and Steven and Toby and Lucas and Richard; and each of them have a corresponding bank account that he doesn’t remember opening with at least a hundred thousand dollars in it.

It’s the tip of the iceberg of things he doesn’t recognise or remember. All his clothes are brand new, down to his socks and boxers; new toothbrush, new watch, new everything. And there’s a set of knives in the bottom of his duffle, two passports in his wash bag, a gun in the glove compartment of his car.

Sometimes he finds things and has to stop and stare at them, hoping that something will jog his memory. Those times he always looks up and Derek is watching him like a hawk, like maybe the Nogitsune is still in him somewhere, lurking. It’s not, it’s gone, that much is certain; because if it was it would have ripped the two of them to pieces by now and revelled in Stiles’ pain.

He tries not to think about it, the chaos and strife and pain caused at his hands, and focus on rebuilding instead but it’s not easy. Some mornings he wakes up confused and goes for Lydia’s throat; sometimes Derek startles him and he throws a punch. It takes weeks for him to leave the room, images of blood and bodies flashing across his eyelids, but one day he opens the door and steps through.

It gets easier after that. The sunshine stirs something in him that he thought had been stolen. When Lydia leads him to the beach, he laughs at little kids in stupid bathing suits, makes fun of the tourists. He eats ice cream after ice cream and smiles in the sunlight, surrounded by the chatter of happy people and the smell of salt water.

Derek goes for runs in the mornings, so Stiles goes with him. The feeling of his heart racing, his muscles aching, is invigorating. It feels good to do something with his body that isn’t killing and violence. And getting to see Derek with sweat trickling down the long lines of his throat is more than reward enough.

None of it stops the guilt he feels or the ache in his heart when he thinks about everything he’s lost, everything he’s destroyed. But the little things that makes it better: Lydia teaching him to braid her hair; Derek bringing him funyuns from the grocery store; them letting him pick what movie they watch. In those moments Stiles pauses and finds he’s relaxed, that he feels safe and loved.

And then one day he steps outside and the world goes black.

-

Lydia hears Stiles’ shout but by the time she gets to the door he’s gone, a black truck peeling out of the lot with a squeal of tires. There’s nothing left except his red hoody lying abandoned on the tarmac.

She picks it up slowly, hands trembling, and there’s something close to panic beginning to rise in her, a scream threatening to tear its way out of her throat. There’s a man a few doors down watching her though, so she backs up slowly until she’s inside their room and slams the door with a resounding crash.

She doesn’t remember calling Derek but he shows up minutes later, nearly breaking down the door in his haste to get to her. Lydia flings herself into his arms, choking on a sob, and Derek holds onto her for dear life.

“What the hell happened?” he asks.

“Someone took him,” she mumbles into his shirt. “He went to get something from the car and I heard him yell and then he was just gone.”

“Hunters?” Derek asks into her hair.

She shrugs in his hold. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “We have to find him – what if they hurt him? What if they kill him?”

“He’ll be okay,” Derek murmurs to her, in a way that is probably meant to be soothing but instead makes it feel like someone is stabbing her in the heart.

“We need to find him,” she says, choking down another sob. “You need to track him. _Right now_.”

Derek shakes his head. “We have to wait until night. It’s too obvious right now. They’re probably still watching us to make sure we don’t go after them.”

Lydia jerks back suddenly. “No,” she says and pulls herself out of his arms. “The longer they have him, the worse it’ll be.”

“We can’t go charging in,” Derek growls. “We can’t risk –”

“Shut up,” she shouts. The panic banked under her skin is shifting, ebbing away to be replaced by something harder. It feels like fury, like rage and wrath and violence.

Derek’s mouth shuts with a snap. “Lydia,” he says softly.

“No,” Lydia says, and her voice is hard as steel, “I had him taken from me once. I won’t let it happen again.”

-

Stiles wakes to the taste of blood. His whole body hurts, a low ache, and he tries to catalogue his injuries without opening his eyes. It’s a skill he learnt at the hands of wolves and hunters, never wanting to give himself away too soon, and he’s good at it. His guess this time is a split lip and black eye, a couple of cracked ribs, rope burn around his wrists where they’re tied too tight.

When he finally cracks his eyes open, the room is brightly lit. There doesn’t seem to be anyone in there with him, so he takes a moment to look around. It’s a warehouse of some kind with high ceilings and long banks of windows, empty except for the chair he’s tied too. His wrists are tied to the arms of the chair in a familiar way; Allison showed him this once, the way hunters do their knots, and his brain stutters a little at the memory of her looping rope round and round her own wrists.

“You’re awake,” a voice says, drawing him up from the depths of his memories.

Stiles looks up sharply. There are five men in the room, all well-armed. Hunters, and good ones if the way they hold themselves are anything to go by. They spread out around him, a careful circle, and Stiles feels his stomach drop a little at the way they keep their hands on their weapons.

“Who are you?” he croaks out, because the more he knows about the people gunning for his pack the better.

“It doesn’t matter,” one of them, obviously the leader, says. “All that matters is what you are – _Nogitsune_.”

The realisation hits Stiles like a punch to the gut. They’re not after Derek – they’re after _him_ , or what was him not so long ago. And from the looks on their faces and their twitchy trigger fingers, they’re going to kill him.

Stiles knows he should be shaking, he should be crying and pleading, but the only thing he feels is relief.

“You’re going to kill me,” he says, statement not question, and the man nods.

“Yes,” he says solemnly, searching Stiles’ face intently.

Stiles wants to laugh at him. If it’s fear he’s looking for, he won’t find it. Stiles is scared of a lot of things, but death isn’t one of them, and his has been a long time coming.

“Better get on with it then,” Stiles says, and that’s when the door comes crashing down and all hell breaks loose.

Derek is a blur of dark fur, moving through the hunters with a snarl. Behind him, Lydia brandishes a bat, _his_ bat, like an extension of her arm. It’s vicious and brutal and when it’s all over none of the hunters are still standing. Lydia’s taken out a lot of kneecaps; Derek has gone for the ankles. It’s pretty bloody. One of the hunters tries to pull himself across the floor towards them, legs dragging uselessly behind him, and Stiles has to look away from the trail of red he leaves behind.

Derek drags the hunters to the exposed pipes one by one and carefully ties them up. Lydia goes to Stiles and puts gentle hands on his face.

“Oh, sweetie,” she whispers, fingers tracing his bruises, “What did they do to you?”

He closes his eyes and leans into her palm. “How did you find me?” he asks softly.

“Followed your scent,” Derek says with a growl. He begins to slice away the ropes around his wrists with his claws and Stiles tries not to jerk at the sharp pain when they’re lifted away. “How bad does it hurt?”

“Not much,” Stiles tells him, but when he tries to stand his legs give way suddenly.

Derek catches him before he hits the ground and sweeps him up, bridal style. Stiles tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a gurgle, and Lydia frowns at him, concerned.

“Get him out of here,” she says, and Derek does.

When they’re gone, Lydia turns to the men before her who are starting to struggle against their bonds.

“Alright,” she says, “Let’s have a little chat.”

The men snarl at her, testing the tightness of the ropes, but they’re going nowhere. Those knots could hold an Argent; these pathetic excuses for hunters won’t be getting out of them easily.

“How did you find him?” she asks as she watches them, snapping and snarling at her like animals.

“We followed you,” one of them says. “We knew the Nogitsune would come after you, so we made sure we kept tabs on your whereabouts. And then you led us to it.”

“The Nogitsune’s gone,” she tells him.

The man laughs, low and scornful. “It’s a trickster, girl. It might look like it’s gone but it’s just hiding.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “You hunters, you always think you know what’s going on. But you don’t.” She twirls the bat in a slow circle. “The Nogitsune is gone, for _good_.”

“It’s manipulating you,” the man says. “I’m surprised you can’t see it, someone as smart as you. And considering what it did to you, to your friends, your family –”

Lydia snarls at him. “You know _nothing_ about that.”

“I know everything about it,” the hunter says, glaring at her darkly. “You’re just as bad as it is, you and your pet wolf. You’re all monsters. And when we get out of here, we’re going to kill you all.”

Lydia can tell by the way they’re looking at her that they think she’s weak. They think the Nogitsune has its claws in her mind and is playing her like a puppet. It makes an old, familiar rage rise in her. It’s been years since she let anyone mess with her mind, even longer since she let anyone call her weak.

Because she is Lydia Martin and while that might mean nothing outside of Beacon Hills, it still means _something_. She has an IQ higher than Einstein and a scream louder than a sonic boom. Her best friend was Gerard Argent’s granddaughter, Kate Argent’s niece, and she was taught how to use a knife, how to shoot a gun. Her pack was led by a True Alpha, and they were strong, tough, powerful in ways no one has ever understood. She’s faced off with kanimas and Alphas and one particularly evil English teacher.

She may look human, may act human, but she’s spent close to a quarter of her life running with wolves, and she’s learnt a few tricks here and there.

“Oh sweetie,” she says, lips parting in a blood-red smile, “You’re not getting out of here.”

No one comes after her pack and gets away with it.

-

The door clicks open and Lydia is standing in the doorway, something that looks suspiciously like blood splattered across her shirt. Derek goes to, wraps her in his arms, but she barely moves.

“God, Lydia,” he says into her hair, “What did you do?”

She tenses and pulls away from him. “It doesn’t matter,” she says, voice entirely even. “They won’t come after us again.”

They stare at each other, and the inches between them feels like miles. Lydia’s face is entirely blank, devoid of any emotion but Derek can smell the burnt-sugar scent of her wrath beneath the heavy copper of the blood. Her heartbeat is steadier than his.

“Go get changed,” he says finally.

She disappears into the bedroom and Derek goes to find Stiles. He’s in the bathroom, shredding toilet paper with shaking hands, decorating the floor with hundreds of tiny pieces. He looks up when Derek comes in and his heart is going a mile a minute.

“She’s okay,” Derek tells him, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder

Stiles just shakes his head, keeps picking the tissue apart. “They were right,” he mumbles. “It would be better if I was dead.”

“What?” Derek gasps.

“I’m a murderer,” Stiles shouts, “I killed _everyone_ and I was going to kill you too and –”

Lydia appears out of nowhere and drags Stiles’ up to face her. She’s shaking, face flushed with rage. “Don’t you dare say that, Stiles, don’t you fucking dare.”

Stiles doesn’t even look ashamed, just glares at her with bright eyes. “It’s the truth, Lydia,” and there are tears running down his face now, “You should’ve let them kill me.”

She slaps him, hard, and the sound echoes in the room. “How can you even say that? There is almost nothing left I care about Stiles, and you and Derek are all I have – ”

“And that’s my fault!”

Lydia claps a hand over his mouth; her skin is salty against his tongue, or maybe that’s from his tears. “No,” she says, “it’s not.”

She cradles his face and presses her forehead to his. Derek wraps himself around Stiles’ back, nosing at his hair, and he resists for a moment, until Lydia strokes at his skin, wiping away the tears.

“I just don’t know how you can even look at me,” Stiles mumbles.

“It wasn’t you,” Lydia says, “And I know you don’t believe that but I do, with my whole heart.” She bumps their foreheads together. “So don’t you ever say that again, Stiles, not ever.”

Stiles slumps against her, the fight leaving him as suddenly as it came. “I can’t promise that,” he whispers; “Some days I just want to die.”

“I know,” Derek murmurs into his ear.

Stiles wants to shout at him, because how could he possibly get it? But then he remembers the fire, the burden Derek has always carried around with him, the guilt he wears as a mantle.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against Lydia’s cheek.

“Nothing to apologise for,” she says back and smiles at him, so sweet.

They’re sharing breath, lips barely apart; it’s not difficult for Stiles to lean up and press his mouth to hers. He hears Derek’s sharp inhale against his ear and his arms tighten around Stiles suddenly. It makes Stiles twitch and pull back.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mumbles, trying to pull away. “Fuck – _fuck_ – I’m sorry, I’m sorry –”

Lydia shakes her head at him. “I already told you,” she says softly, “Nothing to apologise for.”

Stiles wriggles in their grip. “No – I – you two are –”

He’s on the edge of hysteria and he can feel the familiar tightness in his chest, the way his muscles are spasming and his breath is catching, that means a panic attack is coming on. Lydia must see it because she grasps his head tightly, forces him to meet her eyes.

“Breathe with me,” she says, and Stiles manages to concentrate on the steady inhale-exhale of her breathing until his gasping subsides.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says finally, voice soft and shaking.

Derek rests his head on Stiles’ shoulder, tucks his nose behind his ear. “It’s okay,” he tells him, and Stiles desperately wants to believe him.

“Can we just pretend that didn’t happen?” he asks instead.

Lydia frowns at him. “Is that what you want?” she asks softly.

Stiles makes a vague noise in the back of his throat. He doesn’t know what he wants, other than the two of them to just _stay_. Something must show on his face, because Lydia just pulls him into her so that he can burrow into the crook of her neck and breathe in the scent of her.

“We need to leave,” she says to Derek over the top of his head. Stiles feels Derek nod behind him, but they don’t move for a long time.

-

Lydia makes a couple of phone calls, and before they know it they’re packing up their bags once more.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks, watching as Derek throws suitcase after suitcase into the truck.

Lydia presses herself up against his back, a comforting weight. “Somewhere safe,” she says, and kisses the side of his head.

His gut reaction is that nowhere is safe, but then he thinks of Lydia and Derek, of being wedged between them in the middle of a bed, the feeling that washes over him when he’s trapped in the circle of their arms.

Maybe safe isn’t a place, maybe it’s a person. Maybe it’s something he can have again.

-

Georgia is the same as ever, the air heavy with the scent of early fall, trees a patchwork of red and orange. Stiles is curled up in the backseat, dozing as the truck rocks along the road. Derek weaves back into town, past familiar buildings and familiar people. Lydia waves at Mrs Ruben as they pass the bakery, gets a smile in return. Derek takes her hand across the front seat, and it’s like being home again.

Lydia gets him to drop her on Main Street. She gets some strange looks as she heads for the diner, people doing double takes at the sight of her back in town. When she pushes open the diner door, Amy nearly drops the tray she’s carrying.

“ _You_ ,” she cries, sweeping Lydia up into her arms. “I can’t believe you’re back.”

Lydia lets her cling on for a moment, before pulling back. “Hank here?” she asks.

Amy grins at her, pushes her in the direction of the kitchen door. She goes through and Hank raises an unimpressed eyebrow at her.

“I thought it was you I could hear,” he says as he throws a row of patties onto the grill.

Lydia leans against the counter to watch him moving around, breathing in the familiar smell of grease and home.

“So I was wondering if I could have my job back,” she says.

Hank’s mouth is twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “I don’t know. You did walk out on me last time.”

Lydia grins. “Family emergency,” she says, “I’m back now.”

Hank eyes her up and down. “I see that. You planning on taking off any time soon?”

“Not if I can help it,” she tells him. “So are you going to give me my job back or what?

 “I suppose I could,” Hank says over the sizzling of the grill. He glances over at her, eyes assessing. “You want to tell me what happened?”

“It was my cousin,” she tells him. “He’s staying with us now.”

Hank turns to her, eyes soft. “You taking care of him?”

Lydia nods. “He went through some stuff,” she says, because how do you say ‘he got possessed by an evil fox and killed a bunch of our friends’ without sounding insane? “It got pretty bad. He hasn’t really forgiven himself yet.”

“Don’t push him, sweetie.” Hank flips a row of burgers in quick movements. “Forgiveness isn’t something that comes easy, especially not for yourself. You gotta give him time to heal, to understand what happened, accept that he can’t change what’s already been done.”

Lydia is stunned into silence for a moment. “Since when did you get so wise?”

Hank chuckles. “I’ve always been wise, kid, you just never listen.”

-

Back at the cabin, Stiles is fast asleep in the bedroom while Derek potters around, unpacking boxes. When Lydia comes through the door, he pins her against it and kisses her breathless.

“Missed you,” he says against her mouth.

She runs her hands through his hair, peppers his face with kisses. “It’s good to be back.”

They stay like that for a long time, trading lazy kisses until Derek gets his hands up under her shirt, nails dragging along her skin. Then it turns heated, Lydia’s grip tightening on his neck as she bucks her hips up into his. Derek’s mouth is slick against his neck, and she moans as his teeth dig in.

“Quiet,” he says in her ear, “Don’t want to wake Stiles up.”

Lydia giggles. “It’s like we have a baby.”

She stops laughing pretty fast when Derek puts his hand on her inner thigh under the hem of her skirt, tickling the hair there. He slides it up slowly until his fingers are right there, pressing at her through her panties.

“Der,” she murmurs against his skin.

“You have to be quiet,” he tells her, as his fingers dip under the lace to feel where she’s wet.

“Come on,” she commands, and her hips jolt when he slides a careful finger inside her, thrusting up.

It’s good, perfect even, and she shudders against him. Derek gives her another, thumb bumping rough against her clit, just this side of too much. It’s been a while since they did this, and Derek knows how to play her like a fiddle, so it’s not long before she shakes apart in the circle of his arms.

“So good,” she slurs, “Always so good to me.”

Derek’s breath hitches and he grinds against his hip, hard and hot. She gets a hand between them, sliding beneath the band of his sweatpants to wrap around his dick and Derek bucks up into the circle of his fingers with a groan.

“Missed this,” Lydia murmurs into his ear, “Can’t wait for you to fuck me. Want that, want you and Stiles and –”

Derek’s head drops to her shoulder with a thunk and he whines, low and needy: “Lydia, _please_.” Her hand speeds up then, faster and faster, until Derek’s hips jerk suddenly and he comes with a low moan.

Behind them the bedroom door neither of them heard open slams with a bang.

-

Stiles doesn’t go into town much. It’s difficult to be around so many people when he can still remember how the Nogitsune chose its victims, how it wielded a blade, how the blood felt on his hands.

During the daytime Lydia disappears off to the diner and Derek up into the hills, and he’s left alone in their house with nothing but his paints. He loses hours in the steady sweep of the brush against the page, in the bright splatter of colour against the white of the canvas.

He falls into a weird headspace when he paints, tunes everything out and doesn’t surface until it’s done. Sometimes he comes back to landscapes, places he saw through car windows as the Nogitsune dragged him cross-country. Sometimes the work is abstract, splatters of paint and swirls of colour, expressions of emotions he can’t bring himself to name. Sometimes its faces, ones he doesn’t remember captured in blues and greys, and ones he does in reds and blacks.

Lydia takes them to the gallery in town or puts them up online, and one by one they disappear from view. It helps, putting the fragmented parts of his mind down on paper and then letting them go. He can feel himself opening up more, because Derek and Lydia see it on the page so he doesn’t have to put it into words the hateguiltshamepainregret that he feels.

That is, until late November when the weather is finally starting to turn towards winter. Derek is doing paperwork at the station like a responsible adult; Lydia’s working the day shift so she can spend the evening with them. The sun’s setting when a car rumbles to a stop outside. He’s halfway through a cityscape, something that looks like Denver if you squint. The tap at the door knocks him out of his head and off the chair.

When he opens it, Cora is on the other side. She looks as surprised to see him as he is her.

“What the fuck?” she says as she shifts, fangs and claws appearing suddenly.

“Wait, _wait_ , I can explain –”

It’s all he gets out before she punches him in the face and everything goes black.

-

Derek picks Lydia up on the way home, and she fills the car with her chattering and the scent of burgers and contentment. She’s halfway through a story about Amy’s latest boyfriend when they pull up at the house, and her voice dies in her throat at the sight of a familiar car in the driveway.

They both make a beeline for the door and inside, they’re greeted to the sight of Stiles tied to a chair, Cora looming over him.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just kill him,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

It makes Lydia snarl viciously and push past Cora, positioning herself between her and Stiles. “Back off, _puppy_ ,” she growls. “Don’t come in here threatening us. You have no idea what is going on here.”

Cora bares her teeth in a sneer, face contorting with rage. “I know that the _thing_ that murdered all of your friends is sitting right there and you’re telling me not to kill it.”

Derek puts a hand on her shoulder. “He’s not possessed anymore,” he says, aiming for calming and missing it entirely.

“ _Bullshit_ ,” and Cora pulls away from him violently. “I saw what it did!”

Across the room, Lydia is slowly pulling the ropes away from Stiles’ skin, soothing him with gentle hands and gentler words. His body jerks as the bindings fall away, but Lydia puts a steadying hand on the curve of his neck and Stiles relaxes into her.

“The Nogitsune is gone,” Derek is saying; “It’s over.”

“He’s still a murderer,” Cora snarls, jerking forward like she’s going to attack.

Derek pulls her back, pinning her against the door. “ _Cora_ ,” he says, a warning, but she snarls at him, tears herself from his grip.

“He’s a monster,” she shouts. “He killed _everyone_ we loved. He’s Kate all over again.”

A sudden silence falls over the room. “You should go,” Derek says quietly, angrily. “There’s a motel up the road. Do you want me to draw you a map?”

Cora shakes her head. “I’m going home,” she says, her eyes going cold as she looks at him, at where Lydia is helping Stiles to his feet. “I won’t be coming back.”

Derek tenses all over, but he lets Cora push past him. “I’ll call you,” he says softly, but Cora shrugs off the hand he places on her arm.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles calls softly as she opens the door, “for everything.”

Cora pauses in the doorway, half turned towards them. She narrows her eyes at him, but eventually her face softens. “I forgive you,” she says.

Lydia glares at her. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she says forcefully and Cora cringes a little before she vanishes out the door.

The house goes silent and still, the only sound the rumble of the engine as Cora disappears down the drive. Lydia stumbles a few steps until she can grab hold of Stiles and tuck her head under his chin, letting him wrap his arms around her.

“Christ,” she whispers into his shirt, “I thought she was – I thought you were – ”

Stiles shushes her. “It’s okay, I’m okay.”

Derek comes up behind them and slides his arms carefully around Stiles shoulders. He rubs his cheek over Stiles’ head, marking him with his scent. Stiles shudders a little under the attention, leaning back into Derek’s chest.

They stay still for a moment until all their breathing has evened out. Eventually Stiles lifts his head from Derek’s shoulder and turns a little to face him.

“You should go after her,” Stiles tells him. “You can’t leave it like that.”

Derek shakes his head. “She was going to hurt you,” he says quietly. “I’m not okay with that.”

Stiles shrugs at him. “She thought I was, _you know_.”

“Still doesn’t make it okay,” Derek says.

“She’s your family, Derek,” Stiles says with a sigh, pulling away from him a little. “You need to talk to her.”

“You’re my family too,” Derek tells him insistently. “Honestly, I think you’re more family than she is.”

Stiles scoffs at him, unconvinced. “She’s your sister,” he says and Derek smiles sadly into his hair.

“Yeah,” he says. “But, trust me when I say you’re family too.”

“Trust us,” Lydia says.

Stiles leans into them and tries to believe.

-

New Year’s Eve and Lydia’s ready to pop the cork on a bottle of champagne by six o’clock.

“Bit early, isn’t it?” Derek calls from the kitchen as he cooks dinner for them.

Lydia shakes her head, and Stiles tucks his legs up under him so she can flop down onto the couch next to him. “Such a spoilsport,” she whispers and they both laugh when Derek makes a spluttering noise from the kitchen.

She pours out champagne for them into two mugs, hands one carefully to Stiles. He sips at it slowly, letting the warmth from the alcohol flow through him. The house smells like steak and it lulls Stiles into a daze. He slowly leans into Lydia, who wraps a gentle arm around his shoulders, and they sit in silence listening to the sound of Derek humming to himself as he potters about in the kitchen.

“Are we going to talk about it?” she asks after a while, combing a hand through his hair.

“Talk about what?” Stiles mumbles into her shoulder.

Above him, Lydia raises an eyebrow. “The time you kissed me,” she says and pats his head soothingly when he jerks in her hold. 

“Nothing to talk about,” Stiles says, but his body is tense and alert next to her.

Lydia frowns into his hair. “I let you pretend it didn’t happen,” she says, “But I don’t want to do that anymore.” Stiles twitches a little but doesn’t say anything. “C’mon, Stiles,” Lydia says, “Time to tell me the truth. Do you want this?”

There’s a long pause, until Stiles eventually whispers: “I don’t deserve this.”

Lydia makes a noise low in her throat and leans back far enough that she can pulls Stiles up to face her. “What are you talking about?” she asks, voice quiet below the sound of Derek banging pots together.

Stiles pulls himself out of her grip. “I killed people,” he murmurs, “I killed a lot of people. There’s so much blood on my hands and I can’t – you and Derek are – you two are perfect and I don’t want to ruin you with all of that. Please don’t ask me to do that.”

“Sweetie,” Lydia says with a shake of her head, “You wouldn’t be ruining us. You make us better – you make us _whole_. We love you more than anything and we want you with us, all the way.”

And with that she leans forward, hands carefully coming up to cup his face, and presses her lips to his. Stiles opens for her without thinking, lets Lydia sweep her tongue across his lips and in. She tastes sweet like the champagne, and beneath that like her mint toothpaste and something uniquely Lydia.

They stay pressed together for a long moment, until Lydia pulls back. “Just – think about it,” she says and disappears into the kitchen, leaving Stiles wrecked and confused on the couch.

-

It’s a cold spring and Stiles struggles to keep the chill out of his bones. He and Lydia walk home from the diner and by the time they make it back, Stiles is shivering so violently he can barely hold the mug of hot chocolate Derek hands him.

Lydia orders him into the shower, and he’s just turned it on when the door squeaks as it slides open. Derek stands there, shirtless and smiling.

“You want the shower?” Stiles asks, averting his eyes as Derek unbuttons his jeans.

“We can share,” Derek tells him, and pushes his pants and boxers down.

Stiles turns away entirely, trying to stop the heat that floods through him. “It’s fine,” he says; “You can have it.”

Derek’s hand slide around Stiles’ waist, up under his shirt. “We can share,” he repeats.

Stiles tries to object, but Derek just yanks his shirt off, tugs at his sweatpants until Stiles wriggles out of them himself. They both climb into the shower and Stiles turns to the wall, praying the water will drown out the scent of his arousal.

He sticks his head under the water, letting the water run over him until he has to pull back, gasping for air. As he leans forward to grab the soap, Derek steps forward to plaster himself against his back and Stiles can feel where his dick is pressed against the cleft of his ass.

“Der –” he whispers, as Derek’s hand slides across his stomach, slick against his skin, and he tucks his face into Stiles’ neck, laps at the water where it trickles down the ridge of his muscles.

“Do you want this?” he mumbles, nose rubbing up under Stiles’ ear.

Stiles is at a loss for words. He does want it, so badly, but he has a sinking feeling that this is a dream. He’s fallen asleep on the couch and he’s dreaming; he’s fallen asleep at the counter in the diner and he’s dreaming; he’s dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.

“I talked to Lydia,” Derek says, jolting him from his daze. “She told me what you said.”

Stiles jerks so violently that he nearly slips on the tile. Derek grabs him, hands strong and steady over his hips, and slowly turns him around until they’re face to face.

“Do you want this?” Derek repeats and Stiles can only nod.

Derek moves fast as lightening and his mouth is on Stiles’ before he can blink. He bites at his lip sharply like he’s hungry for it, like he’s desperate for it, and Stiles lets him in. It’s hot and frantic, the two of them grinding together under the water. Derek’s hands clutch at the slick skin of Stiles’ back, his cock rubbing up against the sharp line of his hips, and Stiles whimpers, loud even over the rushing water.

Derek murmurs, “Out, _out_ , c’mon,” against his lips and it’s like the first time, Derek dragging him out of the shower and into the bedroom where Lydia is waiting. She takes one look at them and her face breaks into a sudden grin.

“Took you long enough,” she says, eyes flicking up and down as she takes them in.

Derek laughs, pushing Stiles forward until he stumbles into Lydia who takes him carefully into her arms. She leans up to press her lips to his, and she tastes the same, sweet and familiar. When they pull apart, Derek is watching them with dark eyes.

“Shall we?” Lydia asks and pulls on Stiles’ hand.

He follows where he leads like he always has, to the bed where they spend all their nights. She tries to push him down on the bed, but Stiles turns, pushes Derek down instead.

“I want,” he starts, but in the end stops in favour of dropping to his knees.

Above him Derek’s eyes go wide and his breath catches in his throat. “You don’t have to,” he says, hands coming up to cradle the back of Stiles’ head.

“I want to,” Stiles tells him, and leans down to wrap his lips around the head of Derek’s cock.

He doesn’t remember where he learnt how to give good head, that memory stolen by the Nogitsune when it tore through his brain, but he obviously learnt somewhere if the noises Derek starts making are anything to go by. The grip he has on Stiles’ hair gets much tighter and it makes Stiles moan around him, the vibrations making Derek buck up sharply into his mouth.

Stiles takes it, just keeps sucking and bobbing, listening to Derek whining above him until the noise cuts off suddenly. He opens his eyes and glances up to see Lydia leaning over Derek, mouth plastered over his, one hand twisting his nipples, the other rubbing along the seam of her jeans.

The sight of them together makes him moan again, and Stiles slides down as far as he can until the head of Derek’s dick hits the back of his throat and Derek’s pubes tickle his nose. He can tell by the tension of Derek’s thighs beneath his hands that he’s holding back and he doesn’t want that, wants him to push until Stiles breaks.

Lydia must sense it because she pulls away from Derek’s mouth to say, “Do it, he wants you to,” her hand threading through Stiles’ hair right alongside Derek’s.

It’s all the permission Derek needs because he’s suddenly bucking up, fucking into Stiles’ mouth in long, deep strokes. Stiles doesn’t gag – apparently he’s quelled his reflex along the way – and the steady slide of Derek’s cock is the best thing he’s ever felt.

It isn’t long before Derek’s hand tightens in his hair, his hips twitching once, twice, until he shoots down Stiles’ throat. He tastes salty and sharp and _right_ , and when Stiles pulls back he licks his lips to chase the taste.

Lydia leans over him with a smile playing on her lips. “Perfect,” she whispers as she drags him to his feet; “So amazing, my beautiful boys.”

She pushes and pulls until she’s arranged them how she wants, Derek leaning against the headboard with Stiles sitting in the vee of his legs, Derek’s hands running along his sides and across his chest as Lydia strips out of her clothes.

It’s the first time Stiles has ever seen her completely naked and his breath catches in his throat. He’s seen a naked woman before, recently even, but this is Lydia who he’s wanted forever, and Derek who he’s wanted almost as long.

Behind him, Derek is murmuring a steady stream of words into his ear: “Doesn’t she look good? God, the two of you, you look amazing, you don’t even know. Can’t wait for you to fuck her – can’t wait to fuck you –“ and Stiles had no idea he had such a dirty mouth.

Lydia climbs up onto the bed them, naked as the day she was born, and when she throws a leg over his hips to straddle him, he gets a glimpse of the wetness between her legs. He can’t help reaching out to trace a finger along her folds and she grinds down against his hand as demanding as ever.

Eventually she pulls his hand away and pushes him back as she lines herself up. Stiles leans back into Derek, lets him hold his weight as Lydia sinks slowly down onto him. He can’t stop his breath from hitching, his hips from jerking, and Derek huffs out a laugh against his neck.

It’s almost too much, the hot, wet slide of her around him, Derek’s hands sliding along his skin to twist his nipples. It’s been too long since he’s done this, or at least since he remembers doing this, and he’s racing towards the edge too fast, too soon. But he can feel something else rising in his too: a panic attack, that makes his heart feel like it’s beating out of his chest, makes his vision blur and his lungs burn.

Derek places a steady hand over his chest, rubbing in soothing circles over his skin. “It’s okay,” he murmurs softly, nose bumping behind Stiles’ ear; “You’re doing so well, baby.”

Stiles tries to take deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down and focus on the motion of Derek’s hand. Lydia stops her movement and lowers herself down until they’re pressed entirely together, her chest to his, arms around his neck so that Stiles can press his face into the curve of her neck.

“Love you,” he finds himself murmuring against her skin; “Love you, _love you_.”

“We love you too,” Derek says into his ear, teeth closing delicately round his earlobe as Lydia leans down to slant her mouth across his.

“Love you so much,” she says against his lips, before she leans back up and starts to move again.

This time there’s no panic thrumming along his veins, just pleasure lighting him up from the inside out. Lydia rides him with a sinuous grace, her gasps and cries echoing in the room. He watches with half-shut eyes as Derek’s hand slides across her skin, from her breast to her stomach to her clit.

Lydia clenches around him sharply and with Derek’s voice murmuring in his ears, the tidal wave begins to crest. Stiles spirals higher and higher until it crashes over him, his mind whiting out, and he can finally let go.

-

There are good days and there are bad days.

Some days Stiles will walk into town and eat lunch sitting at the counter in the diner with Lydia bustling around him, sneaking him slices of pie when no one’s looking. He’ll hike up to the ranger’s station and sit on the porch, drawing the people that come and go until the sun sets and Derek’s ready to go home.

Other days, Stiles will see a boy with a huge smile or hear the chatter of a police radio and get flashbacks that leave him wrecked and reeling. He’ll lock himself in their bedroom the moment Derek and Lydia leave the house and won’t come out until they return from work, coaxing him out with soft words.

On those days, Stiles clings to the memories he has left, the only things the Nogitsune couldn’t take from him no matter how hard it tried. His mom is a dancing figure, made of silk dresses and the sweet scent of Chanel No. 5; a smile brighter than the sun and soft lips pressing kisses to his forehead in the dark of his bedroom. His dad is solid strength and comforting hugs; the glint of sunlight off a police badge, a disapproving look, the first bite of a juicy burger and moans of approval as fat drips down his chin. Scott is a mirror image, a twin, his other half in a different body: lacrosse sticks and sharp fangs and glowing red eyes, nights spent playing video games and eating pizza and curling together under thick blankets.

Melissa is made of warmth, the lingering smell of baked goods. Allison is razor-sharp edges and glinting knives spinning round and round. Isaac is raised eyebrows, sarcasm and scarves. Ethan and Aiden are a monstrous beast but also friendly grins and helping hands. Kira is electricity and light, soft smiles, kisses pressed to his cheek.

And then there’s Derek and Lydia, beautiful and bold and brilliant. Then and now, even in the shadows they still shine the brightest. In the dark they wrap themselves around him like a blanket and let him fall apart in the circle of their arms, sobbing and shaking, clinging to them like a lifeline, and they hold him, strong and steady and real.

“We love you,” Lydia says against his mouth.

“We love you,” Derek says against the back of his neck.

He curls up between them and sinks into sleep, Lydia’s hair tickling his nose and Derek’s palm a comforting weight over his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally done. And I even wrote a sex scene, go me.


End file.
